Again he made no reply. He was sunk in profound thought, and hardly opened his mouth except to emit a succession of deep sighs. The horses, blowing hard, climbed the last of the steep slope to the village. Once upon the ridge they set off at a goodly clatter round the curve towards the Straight Mile, as eager as I to be home.
After several minutes I determined by insistent interrogation to make my companion break the oppressive silence.
‘Holmes,’ I both begged and invited, ‘I am at a loss on several parts of these most extraordinary events. I would be most grateful if you would answer my questions if, as I believe, we are safely away.’
At last Holmes lifted a hand. ‘I see from your determined expression you will brook no denial. Ask on,’ he replied gloomily.
Before he could sink back into the state of intense and silent thought from which he had emerged, I said, ‘As your Boswell, I implore you, my dear friend, to commence at the very beginning - from the moment you chose to purchase the Evening London Standard at the railway station, an act which in itself I found unusual.’
‘I shall do as you wish, Watson, although I shall require you to put your pencil down. I do not want it in writing that we have had to flee in such ignominy.’
This was followed with the despairing words, ‘Could the fates be turning their faces against me, Watson?’
Once he began to speak, to my intense relief my friend composed himself and commenced a most extraordinary speculation.
‘You assume I purchased the newspaper on a whim. Not so. It was one more link in a chain which lengthened throughout the day. From the moment of my return from the Poplar Dock this morning there was a disturbance in the air. A labourer fresh from the countryside with eyes that harked of Hades, standing on the paving within constant sight of our door, purporting to sell hares but refusing would-be clients. The reply-paid telegram from the President of the Kipling League with its imperious tone, delivered by special messenger like a lettre de cachet. The importance they placed on getting me aboard the three-ten train this same afternoon - the further inducement of a hamper and a bottle of fine wine ordered for delivery to a Pullman car. The light rain which we were told was keeping his guests indoors...’
At this Holmes laughed scornfully. ‘Would such top guns from many an elephant or tiger-hunting expedition in the Monsoon seasons be so shy of an English mist? The post-script on Pevensey, the reluctant way he was referred to... What was the precise wording, Watson, do you recall?’
I pulled the telegram from my pocket. ‘‘And Pevensey hopes to introduce himself’.’
I looked up at Holmes. ‘Why mention him at all if by then, as you insist, he had such a major part to play in the plot you ascribe to them?’
‘There was always a chance we might encounter him. Failing to mention a guest of his standing would have been questionable. It was not Pevensey but his paintings they needed. They were the first line of defence in their alibi. In any case, I believe his presence was sheer serendipity. Siviter may have commissioned the painting of a Constable some weeks ago, anticipating the coming of summer. I am certain he had no second oil in mind at the time.’
I itched to use my pencil.
‘The Boer arrived a few days ago,’ Holmes went on. ‘The Sungazers heard him out and determined on his murder. An alibi was needed. The finest alibis are forged utilising whatever tools lie naturally to hand. Pevensey was already present, painting the wagon pond at Scotney Castle. Without his knowledge or consent, this President of the Royal Academy became central to the scheme the Sungazers swiftly put together. Staffing a painting with a passing stranger projecting a shadow as of a given o’ clock would persuade even you the victim was alive and well at the very hour the Kipling League assembled at Crick’s End, a dozen miles away. Siviter showed true genius. He is a long-admired if distant neighbour of the Fuseys - he would know the Scotney Castle estate almost as intimately as his own, certainly the ruined castle and the moat. He gave Pevensey an extra commission - paint the moat - suggest it would look at its best as the evening-sun began to set, shall we say around six.’
‘To include a figure in a flamboyant hat on its bank.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And all this while their would-be victim was still alive?’
‘For just the time it took Pevensey to ready a second canvas.’
Holmes paused. ‘Then they attended to the other contrivance - how to prove the plotters were assembled at Crick’s End when the so-called drowning took place? What would give them the greatest alibi in all the world? Someone with a sense of theatre, quite possibly Sir Julius, said ‘Let’s summon down that Baker Street fellow this afternoon’, a plan of such impudence it takes the breath away. Hence the telegram you hold in your hand, inviting me to take the three-ten train.’
My companion gave a harsh laugh. ‘Imagine Pevensey at the wagon pond after lunch today, intending to return to the moat towards six this evening, ready to complete the canvas with a figure wearing Sir Julius’ hat, brushes poised like Pistoian daggers. There he stood, still at the wagon pond, putting the final touches to Constable’s dog, when his nightmare commences. Prompted by the news we were on the earlier train, Van Beers and Siviter consulted the Watson Codex. Your tables gave them the information they needed, no longer to prolong the onset but how to hasten rigor mortis. Nothing but an hour or two simmering in warm water would do it. They had no other option but to deposit the body to its very neck in the wagon pond, just the head above the water, the one hand jutting out to offer up the dark glasses. The phantom figure was no longer wanted in the painting of the moat but in the Constable. The length of shadow should show the man alive at three. No wonder Pevensey’s nerves were stretched and raw. Our encounter in the mill-attic must have deepened his anxiety a hundred-fold. Worming your way to the Presidency of the Royal Academy is quite different from holding your nerve when you find you are an accomplice to murder. That is why he and that rogue Siviter followed my enquiries so closely. What of my interest in scumbling and hog’s-hair brushes? What had I in mind? And the sheen, what was the real purpose of my enquiry? When I asked, why the use of boiled linseed oil, they asked, why this concern from Sherlock Holmes? By now I could hardly discuss the weather or England’s chances against Australia without them looking under the covers for a double-meaning.’
He stopped for a moment, staring at me wildly. ‘Watson, I could tear my hair in rage. I was merely parading my wares! No thought of a crime entered my head. How could it? On our departure, Siviter and Pevensey hastened back and made careful inspection of both pieces. One or other noted the Boer’s shadow and reflection still lay by the moat as of six this evening, awaiting its human figure. At once, Siviter made Pevensey take up his brush and paint out the emanations of a man who was never there.’
‘Using the only medium Pevensey had to hand other than boiled linseed oil.’
‘Poppyseed oil, yes.’
Suited to our deep depression, from out in the darkening landscape came a land-rail’s repetitive harsh cry.
Holmes continued. ‘I am certain there was no question of a second painting until this unexpected visitor turns up at their door. When we viewed it in the mill-attic, far from making a pair with to the Constable, the second painting was a distraction - but for what purpose escaped me completely. Now I know the second painting would provide the defence they needed. The deep moat at Scotney Castle, a spot known to every vagrant on his way from Canterbury to Camden Town, was the natural body of water for a tramp to take a wash and drown - and distant enough from Crick’s End not to draw attention to the Kipling League. All was on course until we forced a hasty change of plan. It was when the Evening London Standard told us a body had been found in the wagon pond despite the propinquity of the moat I knew something was afoot - but what? Our ruse to escape their watchman’s eye by catching the eleven-fifty meant Siviter had no further knowledge of our movements until our telegram arrived from Tunbridge Wells less than half an hour away.’